


Famously Invisible

by SparklyGlitterDeath



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Abused Harry, Assassin Harry, BAMF Hermione Granger, Death, Indifferent Harry, Manipulative Dumbledore, Mass Murders, Murderer Harry, No Slash, Torture, cold Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9202538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparklyGlitterDeath/pseuds/SparklyGlitterDeath
Summary: The child assassin has never been seen by a living soul. Harry Potter's been seen by everyone. He'll just have to ensure it stays that way. When everything gradually begins to fall apart, what will be left?





	1. Steven Dropsworth Might Possibly Die

He moaned quietly as the edges of his desk dug into his back and legs. He was cramped and shaking, but that was undoubtedly better than whatever some people in the building had to look forward to. Steven shivered as he pressed himself further into the very expensive desk he'd been so proud to receive, part of his new promotion. Now all he could think about was that his old desk had had more legroom, and therefore more hiding space.

Oddly enough, the whistling both calmed him and made his tremors much, much worse. The childish tune let him know exactly who this was. That was the only thing all of the witnesses, babbling incoherently, all reported the same. Every time whoever this was came in for a kill, he was whistling. It was like something out of a horror movie- all the lights went off, and nothing you tried would turn them back on. Then, you'd hear the damnable whistling. Loud, clear, and never wavering, accompanied by methodical footsteps. Anyone in their right mind hid after that. This had been going on for years, but Steven still remembered the early reports. Crime scenes were littered with bodies. Those who survived gave tearful reports of confrontations; anyone who saw so much of a glimpse of the killer was murdered brutally.

So no one but the foolishly brave still tried to be a hero. You hid, and you hoped to hell he wasn't after you. Because of this, all they knew about the killer was that he whistled, and that he was a little boy. 

The general public had scoffed at this at first. A child? It was preposterous. And yet, every time a conflict arose, it was the same. A wildly scared victim would start shouting, and the whistling would stop, and a smooth, but undoubtably young voice would drawl a few lines. Then a shot would ring out, or a surprised gurgle, or, the worst times, horrified screams that went on for ages. Then a brief moment of silence, before the whistling and the footsteps would start up again. 

The sound calmed him because he was reminded that people did survive these. They weren't random mass-murders. Often, nowadays, when no one dared attack back, the only victims were later traced back as to having crossed the wrong people. These were calculated assaults by an assassin with a flair for the dramatic. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. "I might not die." he chanted, mouthing the words more than speaking. "I might not die. I might not die." Still, it seemed an empty hope when he remembered that he had promised to go to the zoo with his daughter this weekend because a baby polar bear had been born. The whistling was so loud it blocked out his thoughts, bouncing around the large room with a beautiful view of London. He shifted slightly. The carpet smelled like the egg salad sandwich he'd split on it last week. 

Music was his whole world as he heard light footsteps walk past his cubicle. Steven kept his eyes firmly shut. There was no temptation to open them. 

The footsteps stopped. He nearly squeaked, but he didn't let the noise escape his lips. "Oh, silly me." the voice on the other side of his door said wryly. It was a child, he knew now for certain, and he felt a bit of shame at the thought that a boy could make him this petrified. Then he recalled the pictures of this killer's victims he'd googled on a slow day at work and silently congratulated himself for not being a sobbing wreck. A soft, polite knock on his door startled him. He peered over against his better judgement and absently noted that the killer was wearing beat up black sneakers. 

"Excuse me, Mr... ah. Dropsworth. I'm a bit lost. Do you know where Susan Wilson's office is?" Steven sat silently. Susan was one of the most annoying, gossipy women in the building, but she had brought him a cupcake once. The thought that he was weighing someone's life over a sweet made him want to laugh hysterically. But he did want to live. As much as it sent a pang of guilt through him, he valued his life more than the heavily-makeuped Susan's. 

"She's the second to last door on the left, this row." he whispered, barely hearing the murmured word of thanks.

All he heard was the whistling, even as the screaming started up.

His heart nearly stopped when the screaming turned to speech. He shut his eyes again.

"He's- he's short, and he has messy black hair!" A gurgle. A dark chuckle. "And- bright green eyes. He's pale, and-" a choked, abbreviated noise that made him curl up into himself rang out. He didn't register that he had begun shaking. Susan had just damned them all. Maybe just to be spiteful, or perhaps she had thought someone might actually make it out of here. Too late to know now.

The killer, now their killer, had obviously realized this too, as the laugh that sounded out, echoed everywhere, burrowed into his brain, was dark and almost delighted in nature. When it stopped, Steven shivered in dread and anticipation.

The whistling started up again. 

The footsteps moved towards him.

They stopped.

His door swung open and stuck a bit. He hadn't gotten around to fixing it.

He probably wouldn't, he realized now, dazed, detached, as the torn shoes came into sight. A sweet voice spoke. "You might as well look up now." he sounded slightly amused. "You're going to die anyway, thanks to Susan." 

It was those words, spoken with a cool detachment, that partially broke him out of his shock. Steven looked up, and he wanted to start sobbing. 

Despite laughter he'd heard in his voice, the boy's face was completely blank. He radiated innocence. He was quite pale, slightly luminescent in the lights of the city streaming in from the window. Wild, jet black hair shot out in every direction, framing his face. His eyes were shockingly, vibrantly green and locked on his. Susan had failed to mention the zigzag scar peeking slightly out from under the shock of hair, or the fact that he had blood dripping down his hands and smudged across his cheek. It was bright, he noted, his mind looping crazily. Pretty as it drip, drip, dripped and slid down his hands, creating stains that the grumpy janitor would spend forever getting out of the carpet. Then he remembered that Mr. Davies had stayed late today, on their floor, and he tried to stop thinking. 

The blood shone in the fluorescent white light from the billboard outside, making the slight figure glow ethereally. He really was quite young, maybe younger than his daughter, who had turned twelve in May. This child looked like an angel, shining, glowing, shimmering in the brightness. The red, actually the perfect shade for the new couch Bertha had been wanting, and the black hair which might as well represent the color of this boy's soul, contrasted sharply with his pale skin. An angel of death, then.

"You have blood on your cheek." he told the child, almost sleepily. His head buzzed, and he blinked, long and slow. The slender form standing a few feet away from him blinked back before reaching up a thumb and swiped at it before sucking the digit into his mouth. He gave a hum of appreciation that made Steven want to hurl violently. 

"Thanks. You know, I really don't want to kill you." He stuck his lip out in a parody of a pout that made him remember how young his murderer was. He still didn't run. He'd heard the news reports. They still could make his spine tingle. "You did help me out," he continued, "so I'll make it quick." 

The killer gave a sharp, feral grin and the last thing Steven thought before pain descended was that his teeth were as white as his skin.


	2. Hermione Granger Isn't Afraid of Anything

Hermione hadn’t ever seen someone put as much effort into cutting steak as Harry, and his single minded devotion to that task was frankly a bit creepy. Still, she’d always considered herself a brave girl. Instead of joining the rest of the brand-new first-year Gryffindors in sliding away as far as physically possible from The Harry Potter, she wiggled closer to the other boy. His eyes snapped up to hers before she made it very far. It was unnerving, but she steadied herself and finished moving over. “Hello,” she said boldly and clearly, “I’m Hermione Granger. I’ve read all about you.” She inwardly cringed a bit.

 

_‘ That sounds so weird, Hermione, he’ll hate you now, and you’ll never have any-’_

 

“Oh, really? It might be a bit pointless to say, then, but I’m Harry Potter.” He stuck out a thin, pale hand and gave her an awkward smile. She and the audience of eleven-year-olds froze. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all? Hermione opened her mouth to reply, still a bit wary, but was beaten to the punch by a freckled mess of red hair and chicken grease leaning over the table.

 

“Oi, mate, I’m Ron Weasley.” He gave up a grubby hand to shake. Noticing the lack of cleanliness a moment later, he pulled it back quickly and offered a sheepish, but cheerful, smile instead. “I hope we can get along. We’re in the very bestest Hogwarts house together, after all!” A few of the children around them cheered. The table quickly dissolved into different discussions, all of the prior tension evaporated.

 

Only Hermione noticed the cold disgust that swept briefly across Harry’s gaze before he dove back into his meal. ‘ _It’s not as if it’s important, really,’_ she reasoned, _‘_ _Anyone might feel upset with so many people badgering them.’_ Still, she felt slightly worried as she stared at the boy next to her. Why was everyone afraid of him in the first place? They were at the Welcoming Feast, and hadn’t even had any classes together yet. Harry flicked his gaze back onto her for a second and she shivered. Something in his eyes made her afraid for her life. He glanced away a moment later, though, and she felt rationality seep back into her.

 

_‘Well, then,’_ she decided firmly in her mind, _‘If something about Harry makes me concerned for no reason, I’ll be his friend until I can figure out what it is.’_ The next time Harry looked at her again, mouth full of mashed potatoes, she gave him the biggest, warmest smile she possibly could. Although he looked confused, Harry smiled back at her.

 

* * *

 

Hermione curled into herself and _sobbed._ Ron wasn’t trying to be ugly, she _knew that_ , they were only eleven, after all. Even she had seen the shame on his face when Seamus had pointed out her presence to him. But it hurt. It wasn’t her fault she was the best at Charms in their class. It wasn’t her fault that Harry talked to her more than anyone else. She just knew him better than anyone else. She would not have said they were friends, either, really- Harry didn’t like talking about himself, and talking about other people bored him, Hermione could see it in his eyes. That mostly left classwork to discuss, a topic she found interesting anyways. But because of that, they weren’t close, no matter what Ron Weasley thought.

 

So here she was, crying alone in a bathroom instead of enjoying the Halloween Feast with everyone else. She pressed her forehead into the cool door of the bathroom stall and sighed shakily. Ron would apologize tomorrow, and then she would do homework in the library with Harry, and everything would be alright. Hermione wiped her eyes roughly, but tears still slipped down her cheeks. She tried breathing in the patterns her parents had taught her would help calm her down, but was interrupted by the door swinging open. She held her breath and tried to keep still, but whoever it was strode directly over to her stall and knocked on it sharply.

 

“Hermione?” a soft voice inquired.

 

“ _Harry?_ ” she spoke a bit too loudly, shocked. “What are you doing here?” A thought occurred to her. “Harry, this is the _girl’s bathroom._ ”

 

“Yes, I know.” His voice contained poorly concealed irritation. “I came to check up on you. I heard what happened from Lavender.”

 

Hermione stared open-eyed at the stall door for a moment, then rolled her eyes silently. This was ridiculous. Occasionally Harry would do things that, for all intents and purposes, seemed massively selfless, the sort of things that made the professors (excluding Professor Snape, of course) beam at him and award points. Helping a homesick housemate calm down, watering the plants in Greenhouse 1 without being told to, partnering with Neville for Potions…. All things that one would expect a model student to do.

 

They were also things that Harry absolutely _hated_ to do.

 

No one else seemed to notice it. Everyone knew that Harry was sweet and kind, the same way they knew that the earth was round and that Dumbledore was not fit to run a school. It was an unchangeable fact of life. And an utterly untrue one. The annoyance was visible in everything he did, at least it was to Hermione. She never brought it up to anyone, though. Considering how well-loved Harry was, it would’ve been social suicide. _‘Not that there’s much to kill,’_ she thought darkly.

 

She couldn’t keep out the tired sadness out of her voice as she spoke. “Harry, it’s fine, really- you don’t have to stay here.” A pause, then the sound of retreating footsteps. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and desperately tried to keep her crying muffled.

 

Suddenly, the door swung open again, much louder. It hit the wall with a bang and the sound an expensive-to-repair dent makes as it is formed. An awful smell began to filter into the restroom and Hermione heard a low growl.

 

“Harry?” she asked hesitantly.

 

“Well, shit.”

 

“ _Harry!_ ”

 

“Hermione, don’t come out of there.” His voice was back to the pleasantly polite, barely bored tone she was used to hearing. The sound of his shoes on the cool tile floor was self-assured, if shoes could sound self assured. The growling grew louder and the bathroom door slammed shut again. She let out a surprised squeak and snapped her head up.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“It’s not important.”

 

The snarling turned into an outright roar. The stall dividers rattled. Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you _sure-_ ”

 

“Don’t. _Look._ ”

 

She heard the sounds of a wand being pulled out and waved. “Wingardium Leviosa.” A  crash. The beast (it had to be one) only sounded angry and not at all stopped. A quiet curse. “I wish that had worked.” Harry still sounded cool and collected. Hermione was not.  She quietly slid over the door and unlocked it carefully, peering around the corner of the door. She slapped herself in the face to prevent herself from shrieking. A huge, ugly rotting lump of a thing was standing near the entrance to the bathroom, it’s gaze locked on the small form of Harry. Glancing upwards, she noticed a crudely hewn club lodged into the ceiling of the bathroom, likely the source of the crash,  and couldn’t stop herself from snorting. Harry’s Leviosa’s had always had the odd tendency to rocket the object they were supposed to move straight upwards.

 

Harry now threw away his wand as if it were nothing more than a smooth stick, pulling out a rather large blade. Hermione’s eyes widened. The sharp, elegant tool looked out of place in the hand of a small, slightly scruffy boy. Hermione blinked, hard, as if that would change anything, and so missed the moment Harry launched himself into the air. Her breath caught as she witnessed how easily he swiped down, once, twice, and killed the troll, nothing but indifference visible in his gaze.

 

She didn’t even realize everything was over until Harry had wiped the blade clean of blood and looked back at her. His eyes narrowed in annoyance. “I told you not to-” His words were cut off as she took a few quick steps and hugged him, hard. She moved a back a bit and basked in the few brief moments where Harry let pure bewilderment show on his face. It cleared rapidly. Her chest still felt tight and her cheeks were beginning to feel cracked and itchy, but this was more important.

 

Hermione stared hard at the corpse of the troll until she thought she might get sick. “Now,” she said firmly, addressing the wall, “We have to make it look like you struggled to kill the troll. You’ll look like a serial killer like this.” She couldn’t help but giggle a bit at the confused expression on Harry’s face. She pretended not to notice when he stopped pointing the blade at her.

 

* * *

 

“H-Harry _s-saved_ me!” Hermione sniffled again and glanced up at the professors. All but Professor Snape seemed sympathetic. Harry patted her shoulder. “I-I thought I c-could take on a mountain troll by myself, I’ve read all about them-” Snape sighed loudly. “B-but nothing was _working._ ” McGonagall smiled tenderly down at her. “T-then Harry came and cast Leviosa, but all it did was send the club into the ceiling.” As if on cue, everyone turned their eyes to the gaping crater above them. “He grabbed me and w-we ran around dodging it, b-but it kept breaking everything!” Hermione wildly indicated the damage she and Harry had wrought in the brief ten minutes before the adults had stormed in: the smashed mirrors; the pipes Hermione had used a Severing Charm on; the stall doors that a wobbly Leviosa, plus the club, had broken in; and the troll blood Harry had spread liberally around the room. “B-but then the club f-fell out of the ceiling a-again, and killed it! It was all thanks to Harry.” She smiled at the boy and squeezed his hand tightly.

 

* * *

 

 

After that came a flurry questions, points given and points taken away. Ron apologized the next morning and she stiffly forgave him. The Gryffindor girls crowded around her, asking for details- especially on how heroic Harry had looked while covered in troll blood. The attention was all overwhelming, and she was relieved to be able to enter the peaceful quiet of the library.

 

She sat herself down next to Harry, pulling out books, notebooks, quills, pens and highlighters. “Well, that was quite an event, wasn’t it?” she said briskly. The boy next to her gave a noncommittal hum, but looked at her spectuatively.

 

“You know, I never would have thought about bashing in the troll’s head more to make it look like the club did it.”

 

“Well, I never would have been able to actually do it, so we’re even.”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

The afternoon passed without much speaking. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but the silence between them was a bit more amicable, and they sat a bit closer together. As their study session drew to a close, and the noise of chattering students heading down to dinner grew louder, Hermione began packing her things up. As she pulled her Transfiguration textbook closer to her, a newspaper clip fluttered out and landed on the table. **‘Boy Killer Strikes Again!’** They both stared at it for a moment. An obnoxious shriek sounded from the hallway.

 

“Let’s sit together at dinner,” Hermione suggested. It wasn't any special combination of words, other than the fact that she had never asked to eat with him before.

 

“Why not.” It obviously came out flatter than Harry had intended, and she could read suspicion in the set of his jaw and the crease of his forehead. He strode ahead, leaving her trailing behind, and didn't glance back.

 

Hermione didn't care. There were some things you couldn't go through without starting to trust in each other a little, and covering up a murder was definitely one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> This... Might up being more cheerful than I had originally planned. Well, as cheerful as a story of a child serial killer can be. Honestly I don't really enjoy stories with an overpowered Harry, so Hermione being the magical genius made sense. That being said, this isn't going to be the sort of story where Harry unites all of the Houses and they kill Voldemort through logic and friendship. I'm not really a huge fan of excessive Weasley bashing either, so I tried to write Ron as just a careless eleven year old, rather than a heartless bully.


End file.
